Snuff
by DoctorKilljoy
Summary: Mycroft has come into possession of a strange video, and as this case would require leg work, he asks Sherlock to investigate. After initially refusing, John watches the tape and worries that it may legitimately be a snuff film. Sherlock, at John's request, finally agrees to look into it. Which is when things take a turn for the strange.


This was a labor of rage. I was really pissed off at someone when I started writing this, and now not only can I not remember who it was, but why I was angry in the first place. I decided to write something dark and terrible and this was the result. I don't know if "enjoy" is the right word but… Try anyway. Many thanks to my friend Ashley for doing the beta work on this.

In response to a challenge on Tumblr called Spookylock.

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Sherlock said no. It was more out of habit than anything, refusing Mycroft. The Holmes brothers were staring each other down when John came into the flat with the shopping. At least they were seated this time. John went to put the groceries away, saying, "Hello Mycroft. Matter of national security again?"

"Not as such," Mycroft replied, looking somewhat annoyed. "Really, Sherlock, must we go through this again?"

"It's completely ridiculous, and I won't take the time," Sherlock replied.

"I can compel you to."

"No, you can't. And we are busy with cases at this time, so you'll just have to take this to one of your lackeys. Leave." Sherlock got up from his seat and went to his room; slamming the door behind him. Mycroft looked exasperated, but he was well used to it by now. Sherlock's childish temper tantrums were not a new experience.

He stood, ready to leave. But then, his eyes fell on John, and he said, "Have him watch that, would you?" He placed a flash drive on the table beside John's chair.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Once he's seen it, I'm quite certain it will be your next case," said Mycroft, and with that, he left.

For about a week, John forgot about the thumb drive. Sherlock hadn't been lying; they had a heavy case load. It wasn't until he was tidying up in the parlor that John even remembered. He picked it up and, seeing that Sherlock was distracted in the kitchen, took it upon himself to watch the video. Whatever it was, Mycroft hadn't exactly been clear about that. But he'd mentioned it would probably be their next case. Perhaps the video was of a crime?

John booted up his laptop and, after plugging the drive into the USB port, played the video. It started out pretty normal, and he wondered if perhaps Mycroft were putting them on. It started with a teenage girl talking to the camera, and after about 20 minutes of it, John was bored to tears. She just wouldn't stop talking!

He knew her first name (Ellie) and that she was terribly addicted to teen dramas, One Direction and Tumblr. He was about to turn it off, when he noticed something wasn't right. Ellie had stopped rambling, and actually looked scared. John jumped when, suddenly, a hand came from out of frame and punched the girl in the face. "What the hell?" John said, more to himself.

"'What the hell' what?" Sherlock responded, coming into the room.

"I don't know… What is this?" John asked, showing Sherlock the video he was watching. Whoever had been holding the camera had placed it on a tripod and had proceeded to start walking toward Ellie. She was terrified, tripping over herself to try to get away. Sherlock leaned over, and said to John, "Start this from the beginning."

Two hours later, John had thrown up twice and made himself a cup of tea. He had his hands wrapped around his mug, but hadn't tried to take a sip just yet. John thought he'd seen just about every form of violence there was; both on the battlefield and working with Sherlock. But the video had been much, much worse.

They'd watched it together, and in it, Ellie had been beaten, raped and tortured before the man strangled to death. John had tried to reason it away, saying somewhere mid-through, "Must be a fake." Sherlock didn't say anything until the end.

"It's real. She's dead."

Now Sherlock was pacing the flat, deep in thought. John could tell what that meant; Sherlock only got that look on his face when he started in on a particularly difficult case. John finally asked, "Did we see that? An honest to God snuff film?"

Sherlock stopped his pacing and looked at John quizzically. "Snuff film?"

"Oh come on, you're a detective and you've never heard of snuff films?" John asked, getting up. He couldn't seem to sit still either. "It's a rumor, or an urban legend. That rich people pay to have young people killed on film for their enjoyment. Or that serial killers tape their victims dying and sell copies, that kind of thing."

"I've never heard the term. I have, however, seen many videos in which people claim someone's death has been filmed. This is the first time I've seen one that wasn't an obvious fake."

John frowned at Sherlock. "And you're sure it's not a fake?"

"I'm positive," Sherlock replied, gesturing at the computer. "When someone films a death for entertainment purposes, they always have a tendency to overdo it. More blood, more viscera, essentially more gore than one would necessarily see in real life. This was…normal. It would, perhaps, be deemed boring to a general audience as, in comparison to a theatrical production, there wasn't nearly as much blood. And it took so long for the girl to die; that would make people uncomfortable."

"Are you… I'm uncomfortable! We just witnessed a murder, Sherlock!" John shouted at him.

"We did. And now we're going to solve it. First thing's first, we need to identify the girl, see if anyone's located her body yet." He grabbed the flash drive and went to get his coat. "Come on, John!"

"I hate you sometimes," John muttered to himself, but went to get his own coat.

At the police station, Sherlock had a hell of a time convincing Lestrade and the other officers that this was indeed a real video of a murder. And no, he hadn't killed the girl himself. Once they were past the initial doubt and anger, they worked on trying to find the girl. Sherlock had taken to watching the tape several times to try to figure out where she'd been killed, and, after two hours, he was pretty sure he had it.

In the meantime, John had been looking through photos of missing girls. He didn't realize how many teenagers went missing every day. While her ethnicity, hair and eye color narrowed it down, there were still a lot of pictures to go through. Not even the name "Ellie" narrowed it down! He hadn't seen anyone who was remotely close, and it made him feel like a failure. When Sherlock came up, it was a relief. "Did you find the crime scene?"

"I believe so," he replied and frowned. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to find the girl."

"Her name is Eleanor Barrett," Sherlock replied. "She's been missing for a year."

"You already knew?!" John demanded, standing up.

"Of course I did."

"Then why have you been having me look through missing persons photos?!"

Sherlock gave John an incredulous look, as though it should be obvious. "You were upset. I thought you might like to feel useful." John was ready to start shouting again, but that made him stop. Sherlock had been trying as of late to make John feel included. Or at least not to be such a dick to John. It was almost touching, but then Sherlock had to ruin it by adding, "And besides, if you found her through the photos, I wouldn't have to go through the process of explaining how I discovered her identity to Lestrade. Come on, we have a crime scene to get to."

They left New Scotland Yard, and, once in the taxi, John asked him, "How did you deduce her name?"

"I didn't," Sherlock replied. "She told me."

John raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"The girl told me her name."

"I thought she was dead!"

"She is."

"Sherlock, how could she have told you her name if she's dead?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't want to speak of it now, John. Once we're there, I'll explain." Sherlock actually looked shaken, so John didn't pursue it further.

The site of the murder was a surprisingly isolated warehouse. And when they were out of the car, John started in on Sherlock again. "How do you mean she told you her name?"

"I grew suspicious when I saw her outside the flat when we left for the police station," Sherlock replied, going into the warehouse. "My suspicions were confirmed when she appeared while I was reviewing the video."

"So, she's not dead?"

"She is dead, I saw her ghost." Sherlock paused when they entered the warehouse, aware that John was staring at him. "I know I sound mad, John. Don't look at me like that."

"Sherlock, you just said you saw a dead girl's ghost!"

"That's because he did."

John nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning around. There she was, Ellie Barrett. She still had the bruises around her neck from being choked to death, and she was quite pale. But other than that, there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her. John wasn't sure what to do. He couldn't help but reach his hand out, touching her shoulder. His fingers went right through her shoulder, and it was like shoving his hand into a bucket of ice water. It was so cold, it actually hurt.

He yelped and withdrew his hand, Ellie smiling sadly. "You can't touch me John, I don't have a body anymore."

And that was how it started. John had a feeling then and there that the case would be more trying than any other. And he was right.

It wasn't as though he could post on his blog that Sherlock was solving his newest case with the help of a ghost. He couldn't even put the case on his blog as there was something unseemly about it. And any time he tried to write about it, the text mysteriously vanished. He then realized why; Mycroft was at work. He was even more adamant this not hit the papers or the Internet as he was with the case of Irene Adler. Perhaps even more so, as he'd at least been allowed to post those entries to his blog (though heavily edited).

In the end, it didn't matter. Sherlock found the man who'd murdered Ellie in no time, though they never did find her body. The man, Charles Victor, had claimed that he didn't know where it was. But, when Ellie suddenly appeared to him, he confessed everything: The rape, the murder, the disposal of the body… It had been total, and there was no bit of Ellie Barrett left. And there was another person behind the girl's murder. Victor admitted he'd been put up to the whole thing for an obscene amount of money by one Clarence Remington, an independently wealthy American who had chosen to retire in England.

"I ain't the first, and I won't be the last," Victor had told them. It was the only interview anyone got with him. Charles Victor was found dead in his cell the next morning. He'd hanged himself. This had just enraged Ellie. Without Victor's testimony, her body or any link whatsoever, no one could prove Remington was the one behind her death.

"It isn't fair!" She'd raged as she stormed about 221B. Sherlock was ignoring her, lost in thought. John wasn't sure what to do. They were the only ones who could see Ellie, at least so far. Sometimes, she could make herself appear briefly to others, but it took a lot of concentration.

"Ellie, he confessed to killing you. Surely that's enough?" John asked, trying to reason with her.

"No, it's not enough!" Ellie shouted. "I'm still here, aren't I?!"

"What do you mean?"

Ellie looked as though she were going to cry. "I should have moved on! Crossed over, gone to heaven or hell or something! I'm still on Earth! Everyone knows ghosts only stick around because they've got unfinished business!"

Sherlock was getting annoyed by all the noise that Ellie was making; John could tell. He had to stop this. "Stop, just breathe," he replied, getting to his feet.

She snorted derisively at him. "I don't breathe, you idiot!"

"Calm down, then. Look, Ellie, maybe it's because you're not letting this go that you're still here," John reasoned.

The ghost shook her head. "That's stupid. I'm not listening to this." And, suddenly, Ellie vanished.

"Where do you think she went to?" John wondered aloud.

"I don't care, so long as it's quiet," Sherlock snapped.

They didn't see Ellie for several weeks. John hoped that meant that she'd moved on or, perhaps, found another place to haunt. Sherlock had already moved on, finding a new case. He knew that Sherlock wouldn't just let Remington go, but he couldn't get the man right now, so Sherlock found something else to occupy him until he could get Remington behind bars.

But John had started to notice something. The flat seemed to be gloomier than usual. It was colder, though the heater was in perfect working condition. And it might have been John's imagination, but it seemed to be darker as well. Of course, those were easy to explain away. The windows probably weren't properly sealed after being replaced. And they'd been coated since last time. John had followed Sherlock's method. That had to be it.

Or, at least, it was; until one night, John heard footsteps on the stairs. John had been exhausted and fallen right into bed when he'd gotten home. Sherlock was out, unsurprisingly. What was surprising was that Mrs. Hudson was gone too. It didn't really matter, all John wanted was to sleep. He went up to his room, closed the door, slipped out of his shoes and collapsed on the bed. He didn't even manage to get out of his jacket.

He wasn't sure how long he was asleep before he heard footsteps on the stairs. John was content to ignore it, until he realized he didn't recognize the sound of the foot falls. And they were coming right to his door. John's hair practically stood on end as he heard the door to his room open. The steps were quiet and slow, like they were trying to sneak up on John. He suddenly sat up straight and turned on the light. Except there was no one there.

"Ellie?" he said quietly. But there was no response. After that, there was no going back to sleep. He was still awake when Sherlock got in at 4 AM.

The detective swept by him, and John said, "I think we've got a problem."

"I know we do," Sherlock replied, looking out the window. It struck John that Sherlock looked scared. He'd only ever seen that expression on his friend's face once; during the incident with the hound.

"What is it?" When he didn't answer, John demanded, "Sherlock! What is it? Answer me!"

"Clarence Remington was found dead this evening. I've just come from his home." Sherlock was turning all the lights on in the flat. He hadn't bothered to remove his coat, or make himself comfortable. He was manic, and not in the usual 'I have a case' sort of way.

"And?" John asked.

"And someone managed to slip past the guards, disable the security system and kill him. He was gutted and left to die. It was slow, and it was painful; he certainly suffered."

John felt as though someone had punched him in the chest. Ellie, while she'd always been a bit angry, had seemed nice. And he couldn't see her doing something like this. "You don't think it was Ellie, do you?"

"I suspect so, yes. Especially as she's on the security tapes. She made sure that he couldn't call for help, but that the cameras were still rolling." Sherlock finally paused in his pacing as he turned to John. "She stayed and watched him die."

John was still trying to make sense of this, and he shook his head in an attempt to clear it. Feeling as though he should be doing something, John went to put the kettle on. He and Sherlock could both use a cup of tea. "But Remington is dead. Isn't that… Good?" As though realizing what had just come out of his mouth, he backpedaled. "I mean, won't Ellie move on now?"

"No, she has decided she won't." Another surprise: Sherlock nearly jumped when the kettle boiled. John had never seen him this freaked out. He made Sherlock a cup of tea just as he liked it and handed it to the detective.

"Sherlock, sit down. Drink this, then tell me what's got you so worried." Much to John's shock, he did. Sherlock never did anything he didn't want to, and that included listening to medical advice. Which meant that Sherlock must have been petrified. When he'd taken a few sips, John asked, "Now, how do you know that Ellie hasn't moved on?"

"She told me." Sherlock's face was haunted as he recounted the tale. "She was still there when I arrived. She whispered to me the entire time I was at the scene. It's my fault, she says. I didn't solve the case quick enough. If I'd watched the video sooner, and so on. She hasn't moved on, and now she won't until she's made me pay, like Remington did." He finally glanced up. "She's going to kill me John. And, perhaps, even you."

Well, that was certainly a lot to take in. John didn't want to add to it by telling Sherlock about the incident on the stairs, so instead he said, "She's probably angry right now that she still hasn't moved on. I'm sure that when we see Ellie next and have given her a chance to calm down, she'll have changed her mind. And when she does we can talk her through it."

"Are you certain?" Sherlock asked. "The realm of the supernatural is something I'm not overly familiar with."

"Which is why we're going to do some research and see if we can help her move on." This was the definition of turning the tables. John taking the lead on something, and Sherlock scared? It was unheard of! Though, deep down, John was scared. Because he could hear footsteps in the hallway again.

As the week went on, things got progressively worse. Along with hearing footsteps, John saw shadows now. A quick flash of movement in his peripheral vision. Something that would be just enough for him to turn his head. And then it would be gone. John kept it to himself. The thought of the supernatural was scaring Sherlock enough as it was. He didn't dare tell his friend that Ellie might, indeed, be haunting them, and it was only getting worse. While John was able to sufficiently get Sherlock distracted (both by research and another case), the doctor, himself, was unable to concentrate. Shadows became figures, and footsteps became whispers. That didn't trouble him as much as the movements.

It started minor, just as the sounds had. His tea cup had moved when he wasn't looking. That had made John frown, as, from what he remembered, Ellie couldn't affect physical objects. Though, he supposed, that might not be the case now. Sherlock had never told him how Ellie had killed Remington. After an afternoon of watching his cup move around the kitchen, John said, "Ellie, please stop this, we're trying to help you." The response was non-verbal but clear. The cup suddenly zoomed through the air and smashed itself against the wall. John had the mess cleaned up before Sherlock came home, but he was certain the detective had noticed. After all, Sherlock noticed everything.

After the coffee cup, it was books. And when books weren't enough, it was the television, itself. It came on one day the minute that Sherlock had gone out on a case. John sighed and went to turn it off. It simply came back on. John tried to unplug it, and, when that didn't work, he yelled, "Damn it!" John realized something. The sound coming from the television and the images on the screen didn't match up. It was some ridiculous chat show, but the sounds could only be described as… Demonic. People screaming, wailing, crying, roars, howls… John put his hands over his ears and screamed, "Stop it Ellie! Just bloody stop it!"

The television turned off, and the sound stopped. John's hands moved away from his ears, but it wasn't of his own volition. He felt cold hands over his, and Ellie's voice. "Why should I stop? You didn't stop him, and now I'm stuck here, forever!" He felt someone shove him, hard enough that John was knocked to the floor.

"It wasn't Sherlock's fault!" John replied, looking around. He couldn't see her, and he had no idea where she was. "We read about this! You can't move on because you won't let go of your anger! That's why you're stuck here!"

"You're lying!" She yelled back, though John couldn't locate the source of her voice. "You're only saying that to save your boyfriend!"

"He's not my boyfriend, he's my friend Ellie." John sighed and stood up. "He's the best friend I've ever had, and Sherlock did everything within his power to help you. If that wasn't enough, that's too bad. Because he certainly couldn't do more and he went above and beyond!" Suddenly, he heard crying. The broken sobs of a teenage girl. John rubbed his eyes. "Ellie, you can't hang onto this hate. You have to let it go if you want to move on."

The flat was quiet, and John hoped she was listening. But when he felt himself picked up and thrown across the flat, he realized that it hadn't worked. "He's going to pay for what he did to me John. Both of you are!" His head was spinning, and John realized he was losing consciousness. As he did, he saw Ellie standing over him, a triumphant smirk on her face.

When John woke, he felt strange. The best way he could describe it was his skin was too tight. He looked around in a panic, but didn't see Ellie anywhere. He called her name several times, but there was no response. He was relieved; maybe she'd gone. He'd just picked himself up off the floor when Sherlock came in. John smiled a bit and was about to ask him something, when his hands suddenly raised on their own.

He tackled Sherlock, knocking him to the ground. Sherlock was taken by surprise, and he yelped, "John!" John tried to stop himself, but as his hands went around Sherlock's neck, he figured out that wasn't possible.

"I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't… I don't know what's happening!" John shouted. But then, something changed. John felt his face going slack, and while Sherlock fought back, John had a good grip around his neck, cutting off his oxygen. A voice came from John's throat that definitely wasn't his own.

"This is what you deserve, Sherlock Holmes. You didn't save that girl, and now you're going to die for it." There was cruel laughter, and John wanted to cry. This wasn't him, and he hoped that Sherlock knew that. Sherlock was gasping, clawing at John's hands to try to free himself. John would have been crying if it were possible. He knew that strangulation took longer in person than it did in the movies, and Sherlock would be suffering the whole time.

"Please don't make me do this," John begged Ellie mentally.

"No, you're doing this," she hissed. "It's the only thing that would hurt Sherlock. Being betrayed by his only friend."

John knew she was right. The pain in Sherlock's eyes wasn't purely physical, after all. "Please let him go. You can kill me if you want, just let Sherlock go."

"No. He's going to die and it'll be your fault John. Stop begging, you can't stop me."

She was right. John watched with horror as Sherlock's breathing stopped completely. He ceased his struggling, and his eyes glazed over. It was slow, agonizing, and there was nothing beautiful about it. On the floor, in his own flat, strangled by his best friend. That was how Sherlock Holmes died. When he did, Ellie left John, laughing. When he could feel his arms again, John immediately went to work trying to revive him.

John tried CPR, and did whatever he could to get Sherlock's pulse going again. But his eyes were still open, and his pupils were fixed and dilated. He was dead, and John couldn't bring him back. John felt as though he wanted to throw up. Instead, he screamed, long and loud. It ended in sobbing, hands beating at Sherlock's chest. "Oh God no…" John whispered, touching Sherlock's face. His best friend was dead, and he'd done the deed. There was only one thing for it.

John went upstairs, retrieving his gun. It was a simple thing. John didn't even feel the bullet pierce his brain.

He hadn't expected to wake up. But when he did, John knew he was dead as well. And someone had been calling his name. He sat up, not the least bit surprised to see he'd left his body behind. Who kept calling his name? John went downstairs, and gasped. Sherlock was standing in the living room, staring down at his own corpse. "This is quite the disappointment," said Sherlock. "Of all the ways to go, this was the most unexpected."

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry!" John said, rushing over to him. "I couldn't-"

"Control yourself, I know," he interrupted. He smiled a bit. "I knew it wasn't you John, there isn't anything to forgive."

"How did you know it wasn't me?"

"There's a whole list of things, but the most obvious being you wouldn't kill me. And if you were going to kill me, you certainly wouldn't have strangled me. Shot me, perhaps, but strangulation? Not you." Sherlock looked around the flat and added, "And I don't feel like sticking around, do you?"

"No, not in the least."

Sherlock took John's hand. "Let's go, John."

The End

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Expect more stories in November. I'm doing fan fic for NaNoWriMo. Eventually I'll do the sequel to Profiling International.


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